


And Together They Dream

by charmedward



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bisexual Steve Rogers, Dreams, M/M, Masturbation, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Rimming, Steve/Peggy is hinted at once, Underage Drinking, one time drug use, set before Steve wakes at the end of Captain America TFA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 05:53:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2013543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmedward/pseuds/charmedward
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve dreams while he’s frozen in the ice. In his dreams he meets a man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Together They Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Alternatively titled I Walked With You Once Upon A Dream because that song is struck in my head and works so well here.
> 
> I'd like to apologise now for the 30's slang. Also in one scene Steve gets high (through legal means) but it's just that scene and it's not vital to the plot so you can skip over it if need be.

The man in the ice sleeps and when he sleeps, he dreams. 

His dreams are scattered with disembodied sounds and visions that don’t match up to what he hears. Images of wet sidewalks, bare shelves and frosted windowpanes. There’s a voice calling to him but it’s too distant, too far away. The man in the ice buries himself in his misty memories. He knows they belong to him in a past life. Once they were the memories of a small man, then a large man: now they are the remembrance of a frozen one.

In his slumber all he has are the memories. He could lose himself in them, go crazy. If he chose to, he could let himself believe he were living them anew, each long ago choice and pre-determined outcome ready to be made as though for the first time. Whatever he thinks, he cannot change the past. Sometimes he allows himself the comfort of reliving rather than remembering, only pulling back when it seems too real. 

Three times he’s relived chasing the neighbourhood cat out of his bedroom.

Seven times he’s relived birthdays between 1924 and 1939. 

Twenty four times he’s relived his mother’s smile on her last good day.

There are things he can’t remember. He can’t remember his father’s face or the sound of his voice; though presently a thought comes to him that he never knew this to begin with. Distantly he wonders how he came to be contained like this, but those most recent memories are blocked. Everything leading up to this moment is white noise, static in the airwaves of his life.

“Trapped” is never a word he gives to his isolation. For all the solitude it grants him, he feels safe within his mind. There is a certainty that he cannot be harmed now. The knowledge is ingrained within him, as deep seated as his awareness of the ice. If he could explain it to someone, he’d say it’s like a dream – he just knows.

He still dreams of pain. Flashes of falling on his knees as a tiny boy, snippets of slicing his finger on paper, it all comes to him in his sleep but he feels nothing. A numbness encases him even as he knows there should be more. Even as he watches himself bleed. _Why is there no more?_ He wants to scream. No pain comes from the sights he sees and he knows it’s not right. There should be pain. He _wants_ the pain. Wants to feel like this is real.

Is this a test?

He’s twenty-six going on eight. He’s hacking up his lungs in the school yard. He’s straining to hear at the cinema. He’s looking in the mirror at red ring-like rashes and vowing not to tell his mom. He’s twenty-six. He’s not.

When he settles for a time, it’s with a song. The sultry, British voice of the singer reminds him of the dame who introduced it to him. He remembers her humming “Coming in on a Wing and a Prayer” as she worked. Unable to make the notes as perfectly as she made her dark hair, she never sang in front of him. She had caught him staring of course, a stern look on her face before revealing a red smile. He had wanted to have their first dance to that song.

The ice creeps into his sleep. It hacks into his mind like a frozen pickaxe, seeking out his warm memories and attacking them with malice. Memories disperse and reconnect as something new. 

The brunette is gone, replaced with a brown haired boy. The man in the ice is younger, smaller. He’s glaring at his friend but all these years later it’s unclear why. He thinks it’s because blood trickles down the other’s face.

“…didn’t haveta get involved, Stevie! I coulda handled it myself.” the boy shouts.

His lip splits, the skin finally giving way to the shade of red that had only moments ago (years from now) been the colour of another’s lipstick. There aren’t any bruises forming yet but it’s still too early to guess how bad the damage is. A tooth is missing though luckily it was a milk tooth, low on the priority list for now. The boy bleeds and bleeds and sways. He struggles to stand upright. 

“Look at you, Bucky! You’re a real mess. What’s your ma gonna say when I drag you home? She’ll be real sore at me for letting you get so dinged up.” the man in the ice complains.

Bucky grimaces and rests a hand on his friend’s shoulder. He needs the support but the touch is light, like he’s afraid his weight is crippling. 

“Not as sore as she’ll be when she clocks eyes on _you_. Is your nose broken?” 

The man in the ice reaches up and pats his nose suspiciously. There should be pain now, he remembers. He flinches anyway.

“S’alright. Reckon I look prettier than you.” he cheeks. 

He gets a small smile for that. “Don’t let those guys hear you say stuff like that or they’ll be back. We should make tracks.”

They start to walk down the alleyway, towards home.

“Is that why they started on you? Thought you were…?” he doesn’t want to say it.

“Leave it, pal. They’re gone now.” Bucky widens his stride to step over a puddle and winces, grabbing his side, “Reckon they didn’t expect a scrub to turn up and start throwing elbows like a twit.”

The man in the ice thinks that’s wrong. He can fight better than that, his punches are deadly. He should have done better. 

But he doesn’t say that. What he says is, “Gee, Buck, who’d have thought it’d be _me_ saving _you_ from a bunch o’ guys for a change?”

Bucky laughs a little and rests more heavily on the offered shoulder.

“That was a one-time thing, Rogers. And in future, don’t go picking a fight with anyone bigger than you.” his voice is gentle but firm.

“Now hold on, they had you pinned-”

“And next time I want you t’ turn tail and go get the guys from the docks insteada rushing in all guns blazing. It’s a real miracle they didn’t beat you to a pulp too!”

The man in the ice wants to argue, wants to say no one can hurt him now, but he’s being pulled away. The memory swims and the foggy tendrils of something else reach for him. He’s dragged away from the brown haired boy and into darkness.

At first he tries to get his bearings. The darkness is unfamiliar, foreign to him. Dimly he realises it isn’t a memory. That’s when the screaming starts. Not his screaming, the man in the ice makes no sound as he listens to the animalistic howl of terror and hatred. It fills the darkness, claims it. It belongs here.

When he sees another man, he realises that this is a nightmare.

Like pus seeping from a wound, the man emerges from the darkness. He becomes clearer as the background slowly lightens to a foggy grey. Coming to a standstill, his legs are braced – possibly a defensive stance? His chest curls in on itself and his right arm cradles his left. The man in the ice cannot see his face as it is downturned, chin touching his chest. He’s stripped bare at the waist, wearing nothing but blood and days-old bruises. From the hips down he wears US army issue pants and boots. He could be any solider, the rank unclear without his lapels. 

Startling his unacknowledged observer, the newcomer howls again. Guttural moans follow it up seconds later. His breathing hitches as he gasps it in, fuelling the horrific noises he’s making as though his lungs were built for nothing else.

So abominable is the voice of terror that the man in the ice wants to help this wretched thing. He steps forward, walking on some unseen level underfoot.

His movement (and therefore his presence) is noticed. A head of dirty brown hair snaps up and sharp blue eyes lock on his own. For the first time since he can remember, the man in the ice feels pain, deep in his chest. 

The man and the grey mist disappear as suddenly as they arrived. Confused, the man in the ice allows himself to hide in memories of his youth.

*

There are some things he’s not proud of. With his Catholic upbringing he’s always been very set against the idea of lying even when necessary. There are occasions when he doesn’t hold himself to this ideal, however.

It’s May 1st and not quite dark out. Steve is lounging on his bed, reading Of Mice and Men. It’s a new novella, by an author he’s not sure about yet. Normally he prefers a story with a little more action than the lives of farm hands, but a friend had told him it really captures the Depression. So far, he thinks he agrees. 

He’s just picturing Bucky as the new character, Slim, when his bedroom window slides up.

“Jesus, Bucky, you scared the life outta me!” Steve yelps, snapping his book shut.

Bucky grins and rolls off the fire escape and into the bedroom.

“No fear o’ that, life clings to you like a baby clings to its momma’s skirts.” 

Steve should probably be offended by that but he’s too happy to see his friend. They haven’t seen a lot of each other over the past two weeks, what with Bucky’s latest job and Steve’s landlord. This is a golden opportunity to catch up.

He sits up on the bed, giving Bucky room to flop down with a tired groan. The springs creak as he lands on his belly.

“Hey, not so loud!” Steve says, glancing at the door.

Bucky gives a muffled reply to the mattress then turns his head so that he’s looking up at Steve. Mischief finds a home in his eyes.

“Is that anyway to talk to a man who’s been on his feet all day?” he asks.

Rolling his eyes, Steve reaches over and puts his book on the nightstand. 

“You looking for some kinda reward? A hard boiled fella like yourself?” 

He knows the answer before he even asks the question.

“Well now you’re talking,” Bucky drawls, “Be a doll and work out the knots in my back, would ya?” 

Steve pinches him for the pet name but complies. The last two weeks leading up to rent day had been hard, but nothing was as bad as today had been. God, Steve _hates_ rent day. 

He rucks up Bucky’s shirt and straddles his waist, knowing full well that Bucky won’t be moving for a while. They don’t have any lotion other than the stuff they use for more exertive activities, so Steve rubs his hands together and starts dry.

“Murder, your hands are cold!” Bucky grouches. 

“You want me to stop?” Steve asks; fingers testing out the muscles of Bucky’s back.

“Never said that.” he sighs, relaxing as he adjusts to the temperature. 

Smiling, Steve gets to work. 

At the start of every February, landlords all over - for whatever reason – decide to increase the rent of their properties. This always results in too many tenants spending the next month trying desperately to find somewhere cheaper to live before the new rates come into force in May. Steve, being the intelligent man that he is, already had a new place lined up when his and Bucky’s landlord had informed them of the hike last month. They had moved out in a timely fashion and hadn’t been bothered by the flurry of people clogging up the streets with half of New York. 

It seems this year more households than ever had waited until the last possible moment to move out. The streets were constantly jam-packed with furniture, small children and animals on leashes. Those who could afford it hired cartmen and their horse-drawn wagons to transport their belongings. God knows how, but Bucky had secured himself a job as an additional hand with a cartman who used to know his father. 

“Good thing it’s over now, huh?” Steve says as he massages a spot low on Bucky’s back.

Bucky hums contently, either having nothing to add or not sure what Steve’s referring to. If he were a cat he’d be purring right about now, Steve thinks.

“The girls say hi,” he says suddenly, seemingly remembering something, “Becca made lemon meringue pie at the bakery and managed to sneak some home after her shift. She’ll drop it by tomorrow before work.”

“That’ll be nice.” Steve replies. He hasn’t had pie for a while.

Bucky yawns as he agrees, eyes closing and staying shut. He probably hasn’t slept properly for weeks. Steve lets his actions gentle, soothing the skin with light presses instead. Despite not seeing Bucky for longer than he’d like, he doesn’t want to stop him sleeping.

“You ready for bed?” Bucky murmurs, reading his mind.

Steve doesn’t hesitate before saying yes. He leaves Bucky on the bed as he gets to his feet and goes to close the window that Bucky had left open. Giving a quick check for nosey neighbours, he draws the curtains. The last thing he needs is someone running to his landlord with news that his apartment has an extra tenant. With that thought in mind he leaves the bedroom and crosses the small living space to his front door. He locks it and checks it’s secure before returning.

“Satisfied?” Bucky asked with an amused quirk of the lips. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed now, in the middle of getting undressed.

“Can’t take any chances.” Steve replies.

He unclips his suspenders and kicks the bedroom door shut behind him.

“You worry too much, Stevie. No one knows I’m here. Far as they’re concerned, I’m just the nice boy who visits often and lives with his sisters.”

Bucky’s dismissive comment is unsettling in the pit of Steve’s stomach. He keeps having nightmares that someone will catch Bucky sneaking in one night. He’s scared he’ll forget to lock the front door and his landlord will walk in and see something more incriminating than an illegal tenant.

“Come to bed, Steve.” 

He can’t argue with that.

Wriggling out of his pants, he crawls onto the mattress and takes his usual place at Bucky’s side. Bucky is sleepy and pliant, allowing Steve to pull a tanned arm around his own pale body. They shift, accommodate, settle. 

“I’ve missed this. Missed you.” Bucky whispers into Steve’s neck.

Steve can’t help but shiver at the breathe tickling his bare skin. Bucky mistakes it as a sign of the cold and pulls the smaller man closer.

“Shut up you sap, anyone would think you were dizzy with me.”Steve chides.

Even though it’s him that said it, something giddy flares in Steve’s chest. 

“Well it’s a good thing there’s no one around to get the wrong impression then.” Bucky quips back.

Steve aims a kick back at him and hits Bucky’s leg. Cursing, Bucky nips Steve’s shoulder in retaliation. 

“I love you.”

“Yeah I know, Buck. Me too.”

Blackness falls over his eyes and he knows he should be asleep. There’s nothing after this memory, just waking up the next morning to an empty bed and a slice of lemon meringue pie on the table. He lingers though, stuck remembering the smell of Bucky’s sweat stained shirt and the sweetness of the pie. He doesn’t want to move on yet.

He does though. He always does.

*

Lying to his landlord to get a lower rent of a one person apartment is one thing, but there are other bad things that the man in the ice has done. 

Right now that includes forgetting the wrong things. His name, for example. Where he’s from. He can’t remember the colour of his _hair_. Before the war (he can never forget the war) it was a horrible shade, bleak and dull like everything else. But then something happened and it changed. Or rather, his eyes did. He saw his hair properly for the first time, saw it like everyone else always had. He had liked it in this new colour. But now when he tries to remember how it was, the colour drains away and he can only picture a small man in front of a cracked mirror with hair as lifeless as a hog at the butchers. 

Other things he misremembers. When the brown haired boy said to the man in the ice “Don’t go picking a fight with anyone bigger than you” he meant something else. At first the man in the ice had thought it was an admonishment, a literal but well-meaning threat. It was not. Its true meaning is right there, on the tip of his tongue! It’s infuriating and tantalisingly close, yet stubbornly refusing to make itself known to him. Such a small thing, the fine print of speech, yet he can’t remember.

Time passes (time must still pass, even in the ice?) and he thinks. 

After a while he unearths a new memory. It’s familiar even though he can’t pin a location to it. Pain spikes up and down his body and he wonders when he is to hurt so much. It’s still unclear, still foggy. 

He’s not alone. 

The distraction of his injuries doesn’t last long when he sees another person facing away from him. He’s sat on the ground, staring at something on his left. The man in the ice walks towards him, rounding to get a better look, and has to stifle a gasp. 

The man is missing his left arm. By the looks of it, it’s been surgically removed from just above the elbow. There’s more than a stump left, but it looks badly done. It looks new.  
The man with one arm looks up through eyes full of tears. Fear is sharp in his cerulean irises. He cowers away and moves his right arm up to defend himself. The man in the ice sinks to his knees and tries to appear unthreatening. He wants to communicate “I mean you no harm” but he has no voice. It’s lodged in his throat, paralysed in horror at this wreck before him. 

The man with one arm sobs. Strangely, he has no smell. No anti septic spray, no chloroform lingering from the operation he must have just came out of. Not even a trace of sweat. Smell is meant to be the strongest link to memory, yet he can attribute nothing to this man. Can’t even say when this memory occurred. It must have been during the war, his clothes make that clear even if his arm didn’t. It must be a memory because that face, hidden in facial hair, is familiar. 

It bothers him that he can’t remember this man.

In front of him, the man is verging on hysterical, tearing at his clothes and his hair as though he can pull the pain right out of his body. Does he have pain relief? Does someone help him? The memories aren’t coming forward like they should. The man in the ice should _know_ what happens next. He should be able to take comfort knowing that someone will come along soon and help but-

But this isn’t a memory.

What he thought to be a memory is actually a dream; a violently unpredictable nightmare. There’s nothing else it can be. He can’t know what will happen because it has yet to be decided. 

Fortunately, the man in the ice knows that when you are aware that you are dreaming, you gain power over the fantasy. He takes control and just like that the man with one arm is gone. He is alone again. It is quiet again.

*

“I swiped them from the pharmacy ten blocks over, no one will come lookin’.” Bucky assures him, pressing the cigarettes into his hands.

The box is small and mustard yellow, a bit tattered around the edges but otherwise a perfectly good box of Potter’s asthma cigarettes.

“You can’t go stealing for me every time I get sick, Buck! What would my ma say if she could see you now?”

“God rest her soul, she’d thank me for helping her son. Now get over here.”

Bucky goes to open the living room window, a swagger in his step; he motions for Steve to join him at the sill. He does, albeit reluctantly. With a little hop he’s sitting on the ledge, feet dangling down and just brushing the carpet below. Bucky produces a matchbox from his pocket and between them they quickly have a cigarette lit.

“How long d’you reckon it’ll take to work?” Bucky asks, eyeing the pinprick of light.

Steve brings the cigarette to his lips and inhales the way he’s seen Bucky do a few times with the regular brand of cigarettes he likes. He coughs out on the exhale but after shooing Bucky’s worried advances away he handles himself fine. A few exhales later and he’s betting a shoe shining on how fast he can learn to blow smoke rings.

“Slow down there, Gandalf. Just seeing you breathe easy is enough for now.”

Steve grins, “Have it your way.”

He nudges Bucky with his foot, laughing when Bucky bats it away. The smoke floats out into the city and for once Steve lets himself really relax. His lungs feel better than they have in a long time. There’s nothing to worry about. 

“Bucky!” Steve suddenly cries, jumping to his feet.

The hasty action has Bucky scrambling up from where he’d been slouched against the wall. He’s looking around for danger but he’s looking the wrong way. “What?”

Still holding the cigarette between two delicate fingers, Steve dances in an agitated manner and points at the window sill he’s just been sat on. A parade of bugs marches in over the wood and invades his home with single minded determination. It’s an endless stream of colourful creepy crawlies. 

“Steve, what?”

“Look! Look at the bugs!” Steve insists, gesturing.

Bucky looks down at where Steve indicates but he frowns. “There’s nothing there.” he says even as the first bug makes it to the floor and heads towards the coffee table they bought at a flea market.

“No,” Steve whines, eyes locked on the invaders. “Bucky, they’re gonna steal my art. We gotta- we gotta-”

But Bucky is laughing at him, plucking the cigarette from his grasp and stubbing it out on the outer window sill. “That’s enough of _that_ , pal. The boys down the docks said this could happen some times.” 

Steve thinks Bucky is being very rude to laugh at him. He says as much and Bucky only laughs harder, until tears form in his eyes. Throwing an arm around Steve’s bony shoulders he half guides half drags him into the pokey kitchen and fixes him up a glass of water.

“I can’t wait to tell you about this when you ain’t high. Who’d have thought little Stevie could puff like a real Reefer man? There’s no going back to Church now.” Bucky cackles.

Sipping the water, Steve pulls a face at his friend. “What are you talking about, Buck? I’m fine.”

“You’ve got an edge.” Bucky argues with a smirk.

Steve ignores the accusations as to his intoxicated state and concentrates on finishing his drink. He can no longer see the bugs but he’s sure they’re still there. He’ll go check once Bucky stops giving him that look.

There’s more to the memory but the man in the ice has had enough for now. He knows the brown haired boy won’t laugh again. Not in this memory.

He draws himself out, retreating back to that neutral headspace he has between memory and nightmares. A thought has occurred to him. He doesn’t know when it fell into place, but he thinks he knows what the brown haired boy meant when he said “…don’t go picking a fight with anyone bigger than you.” What was really meant was “Don’t pick a fight with anyone bigger than _me_ , because I will be the one to fight your battles for you.” The thought warms him. If anything could thaw the ice surrounding the man, it would be this realisation. 

It doesn’t, of course, because thoughts are fires only in the mind.

He’s had enough of memories for now. As nice as they are, a sense of melancholy befalls him each time he remembers it’s over. Is this what death is? An eternity of reliving the past with the bitterness of knowing there is no future?

_“Where are we going?”_

_“The future.”_

Once again darkness gathers around the man in the ice. He goes willing into the nightmare this time, desperate to see something he doesn’t already know. Secretly (but what are secrets in death?) he longs for the nightmares. Only there can he feel anything real. 

“Hello?” the man in the ice calls out, roaming the empty plain of nothingness. 

The man with one arm appears as though summoned. He fades into existence just off in the peripheral vision of his summoner. As is the way of him, he no longer looks like the man in the ice remembers him. This time he has both arms, though the left is metal from shoulder to fingertip. He’s clean shaven, yet his hair is starting to grow out of military regulated lengths. No longer in army wear, he wears heavy looking black pants and laced boots that stop just below kneepads. A leather glove is fitted on his metal arm. 

Strangely, he’s still bare-chested. Sucker marks litter his skin and the man in the ice recognises them as marks of doctor’s equipment. He’s seen the marks on his own body. Maybe his brain had remembered how distressed he’d been to see the man hurt before and was now fixing him? Maybe it was all an elaborate story designed by God to keep him entertained in death.

“Hello.” the man in the ice calls a second time.

Blinking at the sound of his voice, the man with a metal arm advances. His movements are careful, wary. Guarded blue eyes assess him as he stops a few feet away. Twitching fingers reveal his unease.

“Who are you?” the man with a metal arm asks. His voice is deep yet he keeps it soft. He speaks and conveys the sense that to lie to him would be an error.

The man in the ice wishes he had a better answer, “No-one who means you harm.”

This displeases his acquaintance. Flesh and metal knuckles clench. 

“Who am I?” he demands next, managing to retain only a sliver of his former softness. 

“I don’t know. I think-” he’s cut off by a low growl, “I think I knew you once.”

They lapse into silence. 

There’s a block in his head. Something stops him from answering these simple questions and a few others. He still can’t work out how he came to die. Perhaps he will wish he didn’t know if he could remember, but the agony of not knowing his last moments is suffocating. He deserves to know. If he could remember how he died, he might remember who he was.

“You aren’t German.”

The observation is an unusual one.

“No.” the man in the ice says. He can’t say for sure where he’s from but he knows his accent is wrong for Germany. America, he thinks. That feels right. “Why would I be German?”  
The man with the metal arm rocks back on his heels and casts his eyes around as though he believes the nightmare plain to be bugged. “When I wake, everyone around me…they talk in German. The doctors, the guards. Only one man speaks in English and you are not him.”

That doesn’t make sense. This is a nightmare belonging to the man in the ice, not the other way around. How can this other man wake when he is no more real than the memories?

“I don’t understand.” he says.

The other misunderstands, “When I am awake I am a prisoner. A test subject. Is that what you are? Another test?” he grows angry, “Even in my sleep I have no peace! Who are you? Why are you in my dreams?”

Backing off, the man in the ice raises his hands, “I don’t know! I thought this was my dream but I can’t- I don’t-”

He breaks off as the other man makes to grab at him. Fear courses through him. He shuts his eyes and braces for an impact that never comes.

When he opens his eyes, the nightmare is over.

*

Later he’s in a bar. It’s crowded and brightly lit in the wake of the anniversary of prohibition ending. The whole room feels joyous and exulted as though the changing of the law happened yesterday and not five years ago. People that had once hidden in speakeasies are out tonight without fear of arrest. They pour money into the cash registers in a frenzy that the bartenders struggle to keep up with. 

Steve sips on his pint with the small sips of a man who knows his money will run out before he can drink his fill. He savours the amber liquid, allowing it to rest on his tongue for a moment before he swallows. He was too young to be affect by the 13 year long prohibition. In fact for nearly all of his life the ban on alcohol had been in place. The men who fought in the Great War had come home bitter that they couldn’t drink to celebrate their survival, but Steve Rogers had known no different.

Of course, Bucky had taken Steve to his fair share of speakeasies as younger men. They’d tried moonshine and felt the adrenalin when they were nearly caught. It had been for the fun of it rather than for the actual drinks. 

Things are different now. Steve is two months from turning 18 – legal drinking age in New York – and Bucky is sat smug with his honestly bought beer. He’d bought Steve’s beer too, making him wait at their table and assuring him that it would be fine, “You’re practically 18 anyway, Stevie. Who’ll know?”. 

They drink in a comfortable silence, eyes darting around the unfamiliar layout of the room. An overwhelming majority of the patrons out tonight are blue-collar men. A few girls are at the bar but Steve suspects most of them will be in the dance halls tonight. That’s where he had wanted to be, but Bucky had had other ideas. 

“Look Steve, they’ve got a selectophone!” Bucky cries, tugging on his friend’s arm.

Steve pushes him off and cranes his neck to see what Bucky’s spotted. Against a wall half obscured by people is indeed a bulky music player. Unlike lesser models, a selectophone had ten records to choose from. 

“Do you think they’ll have _I've Got a Pocketful of Dreams_?” wonders Bucky.

“I reckon your favour for Bing Crosby is getting out of hand.” Steve mutters, even as he fishes in his pocket for a coin.

He finds one and flips it to his friend, nodding his head towards the machine. Bucky’s face lights up and he says his thanks as he gets to his feet.

“Just not _Once In A While_!” Steve calls after him.

Bucky’s already out of earshot though, part of the heaving crowd. He makes no secret of his love for music. Steve watches him stand over the selectophone and though he has his back to him, Steve imagines a serious look befalling that youthful face as he tries to spend his borrowed money as wisely as possible. 

He realises that he’s smiling to himself as he watches Bucky so he turns his eyes away. There are so many things happening in the room that he’s spoilt for choice. One man is attempting to help himself from behind the bar, not taking note of the bartender coming at him with a sopping rag. A group of people just entering the building are being hailed by a small knot of friends at another table. Some poor boy is running around collecting empty glasses in his arms. 

What catches Steve’s attention in particular however is a young woman standing in the middle of the room. A couple of men are talking to her and though Steve can’t hear what’s being said he manages to put together from her body language and a spot of lip-reading that she doesn’t know the men and doesn’t want to. Steve waits to see if she needs any help before making a decision. 

Just as he’s about to get up and intervene, Bucky sits down.

“No.”

“Bucky, listen-” Steve begins, argument already in mind.

“You’re not getting involved. This was meant to be a fun night, Steve. It’ll stop being fun the moment you get a black eye.” Bucky shuts him down firmly.

The woman starts to walk away but one of the men catches her wrist and spins her around. 

“I won’t get involved,” he says reluctantly, “but you have to.”

He doesn’t do this. While Steve knows that Bucky could fight his battles for him, he always leads the charge. He’s never made Bucky fight on his behalf without him. He’s never _made_ Bucky fight at all, come to think of it. It’s probably this that gives Bucky pause.

“Just walk up to the gal and act like you know her.” Steve begs, “When they see she’s got a fella they’ll back of. You know they will. I’d do it but…”

He leaves the sentence in the air. Both of them know how it ends. No one would believe a pretty lady of at least 20 would be seen out with a guy like Steve.

It’s not meant to be a guilt trip but the self-deprecation seems to do it. Bucky is hauling himself upright again and making his way over to the action before Steve can thank him. He leaves his beer. 

He probably says something like “Hey darlin’, I thought you weren’t coming.” or “Hi doll, I’ve been looking all night for you.” because that’s what he always says when Steve imagines Bucky meeting him in a bar. Either way, the woman smiles like she knows Bucky. Anyone would think she’s a real leading lady the way she convinces her harassers that her boyfriend is here now and she has to say goodbye to them. 

They carry on the act at the bar for a few minutes, a show for the eyes that keep glancing over at them. Steve finishes his beer and switches to Bucky’s, noticing that he’s bought himself another. He watches them chat, trying not to feel jealous or lonely when Bucky makes the woman laugh. She’s too old to really like him. 

Eventually someone approaches her and she greets them with zeal. The newcomer is introduced to Bucky with a handshake. Tapping his foot, Steve wishes Bucky would hurry up and come back. He freezes when the woman leans over and kisses Bucky on the cheek before leaving him at the bar. Steve notices that the men are no longer watching. It wasn’t for show.

Bucky seems to realise this too as he watches her leave. He returns to the table in a bit of a daze, pint in hand.

“How about that, Stevie? Saved the princess from the dragons and got a kiss for my troubles.”

Steve doesn’t really want to answer that, but he’s glad the woman is okay. “You did swell, Buck.”

Luckily Bucky doesn’t pick up on Steve’s mood and the rest of the night passes without incident. 

After closing time they head back to their apartment together, exaggerating Bucky’s state of inebriation as an excuse for Steve to put his arm around Bucky’s waist. It’s a risky move but Bucky dutifully remembers to stumble and talk louder when someone approaches. Usually Steve may feel anxious with his hands on Bucky’s alcohol-warmed body but tonight is different. Tonight he sulks because a red lip print is smudged on Bucky’s cheek. He relishes the opportunity to maintain contact between them. Though he can offer little in the way of actual support for Bucky’s larger frame, his grip is surprisingly strong on Bucky’s side. He considers moving the hand to his hip, though that would probably be too much of a giveaway. 

“I was thinking we’d go to that baseball game this weekend. If my shift doesn’t change I’ll be free to go and you can introduce me to the team.” Bucky rambles, squeezing Steve’s shoulder.

“I don’t actually know the team, Buck.” Steve tells him.

Bucky snorts as that, “Nah, you only go there every time they play and sketch ‘em in action. Of course you haven’t introduced yourself.”

“Well maybe-”

“See! What did I say?” Bucky crows.

“Shut up. It’s not like that.” Steve grumbles crossly, “I said hi and asked if they minded me drawing them, that’s all.”

He kicks at something in their path – which turns out to be a leaf – fumbles, and nearly overbalances. Quietly cursing, he corrects his pace until he’s matching Bucky’s slightly smaller than usual strides. He feels Bucky’s eyes on him and resolutely does not look over at him.

“Something’s wrong.”

Steve sighs, Bucky always could tell. He doesn’t want to get into it though; doesn’t want to be the jealous lover. He thinks he could control it if Bucky just lets him simmer for a bit. He doesn’t though, because that’s not Bucky.

“Look Bucky, it’s nothing. Can we just go home?” Steve says.

Kindly, Bucky doesn’t say that they _are_ going home, are very nearly home. Their building is on the horizon. It’s not the nicest place they’ve ever lived but they’re still new to the property market and a ground floor apartment is a blessing with Steve’s list of health problems. 

Bucky starts to dig deeper but then a man is crossing over to their side of the street and Bucky has to do his trip-giggle-cling to Steve routine. Steve apologises to the man for Bucky’s behaviour for added credibility. Somewhere not too far away, thunder rumbles.

“Home sweet home.” Bucky says when they finally get through their front door.

He gets a grunt in reply from Steve and chooses to ignore it in favour of standing by the window and listening to the rain fall.

“You know, we’re pretty lucky. Another few seconds and we’ve have been caught in that.” he observes. 

“Yeah I’m feeling real lucky tonight.” Steve snarks.

He’s sat on the dining table like he used to when they were children. In the poor light of their apartment he’s covered in more shadows than colour. His coat is thrown over the back of the nearest chair and his hands are gripping the table top. It’s an overreaction that’s brewing and he knows it. 

“Does this have anything to do with that dame?” Bucky asks, “Because it was me that helped her and not you?”

It’s not accusatory but to Steve it still feels like a kick. He helps people to _help_ them, not for any ego boost or personal reward. As long as they are okay, Steve is usually satisfied. Usually.

“I don’t care that no one would believe a girl like that was with a guy like me, Bucky. They’d be right to think that.” he snaps. 

Bucky doesn’t seem to believe him, “Any gal would be lucky to have you, Steve. You’re not worth any less than other guys.”

Steve wants to burst into irrational tears when Bucky says that. He doesn’t understand why Bucky would assume it’s about the girl when really it's about the fact that he can’t be seen out with Bucky like that girl can. It about him not getting to lay his claim to Bucky with kisses of his own in public. It’s about how tired he is of seeing girls making eyes at _his_ Bucky and not being able to do anything about it. He doesn’t say this. 

Slipping off the table, Steve strides over to Bucky and grabs him by the lapels. Glaring up into his blue eyes, he’s certain he was going to say something but the thought is gone. He’s angry and a little upset and he just wants to _not share Bucky._

Something in his expression must tip Bucky off because he leans down and cups Steve’s jaw. Pausing only long enough for Steve to break away, Bucky captures Steve’s lips in a soft kiss. The anger doesn’t immediately disappear but it does quiet down enough for Steve to move onto fresh thoughts. Right now that included reminding Bucky of who he belonged to. 

Steve kisses back harder, head tilted uncomfortably far back to allow Bucky access to his mouth. Rain pours down from the heavens outside and masks any small noises either of them makes. His hands are still bunched in Bucky’s lapels and when Steve realises this he quickly moves them to more beneficial areas. When Bucky draws back for air he looks mildly surprised to see his shirt unbuttoned. 

Bringing Steve’s fingers to his lips, he murmurs, “I never do give your hands enough credit.”

Pointedly ignoring the eye roll it earns him, Bucky carries on. He presses whispers of kisses to Steve’s wrists – as far as the sleeves of his shirt will allow. When the material refuses to go further up Steve’s arm, Bucky unbuttons the sleeves and resumes his affections. 

“Are we going to be here all night?” Steve asks with a smile.

Making a noise of consideration, Bucky darts up to kiss Steve’s forehead, his nose, his cheeks. “Now there’s a thought.”

“Bucky,”

“Does it have to be right here, specifically? In front of the window, Steve? Want me to hold you up against the glass as I fuck you?”

_“Bucky.”_

He laughs at Steve’s scandalized face. That laugh dies the second Steve says, “Well now you mention it…”

“You dog. Right for old Mrs Johnson opposite to see? Think of your immortal soul, Rogers! In fact-” he leaves the sentence unfinished as he moves away, grabs Steve’s hand and pulls him to their bedroom.

This time it’s Steve that trips as he’s being led somewhere, though luckily Bucky is there to make sure he doesn’t fall. He makes a quip about Steve’s eagerness and is rewarded by being pushed rather forcefully onto the bed. Steve commits the sight of Bucky sprawled on his back to memory. He has no plans to draw this scene but he doesn’t ever want to forget the sight of Bucky in his undershirt, shirt unbuttoned and a hand palming at his pants. He’s licking his lips even as he sits up and gestures for Steve to straddle his lap.

Steve does, hooking two slim arms around Bucky’s neck. His knees and calves rest on the bed but otherwise his weight is entirely supported by Bucky. He takes a moment to be grateful that he doesn’t weigh much.

“How do you want to do this?” Steve asks, fighting back the urge to kiss Bucky again.

Humming, Bucky reaches up to Steve’s back and starts rubbing circles into it. His eyes drink in the sight of Steve almost exactly eyelevel with him in this position. Blue eyes crinkle at the edges as he smiles.

“However you want. You’re the real hero of the hour, buddy.”

Steve had all but forgotten the earlier events of the night. He’d almost forgotten another person’s lips on Bucky’s cheek. Blue fire flashes in his eyes as he darts forward and nips Bucky’s earlobe. Bucky cries out, then immediately changes to sighing as gentle sucks cover the spot. Steve takes this opportunity to speak directly into his ear and send shivers down Bucky’s spine.

“I want you.”

He’s never been good at talking about sex or talking during sex, but he thinks he makes his point pretty clear when he grinds down into Bucky’s lap. Not enough time has passed for a full erection, but Steve can feel the beginnings of one forming in Bucky’s pants.

“Yeah,” Bucky says with a thick voice, “Yeah we can do that.”

Deciding they’ve spoken enough, Steve meets him for another kiss. This one is passionate in a way the previous ones weren’t. Teeth clink. Spit builds. It grows frantic, then stutters and calms as the two men become distracted with removing each other’s clothes. Two rumpled shirts fly across the room, quickly followed by suspenders, undershirts and belts.

“Get your damn shoes off.” Bucky says at one point, laughing as he rolls Steve onto the mattress beside him. 

The shoes fall onto the floor with a loud bang that makes them both grateful they’re on the ground floor. Socks come next, albeit with a bit of an argument. (“Bucky, I swear to god if you think I’m honestly going to keep them on just because my feet are a little cold, I’m gonna-”) Bucky ends that argument with a kiss. He removes Steve’s socks for him as a sign of good faith, then promptly locks a wrist around his ankle and tickles his foot until Steve is writhing on the bed and breathless. Clearly thinking that Steve is breathless for all the wrong reasons, he releases him and crawls up the bed until he’s leaning over his lover.

Positioned as he is, it’s no trouble to bob his neck and plant a few kisses on Steve’s chest. Steve arches up into the attention, knees bending a little. His mouth falls open with a gasp when Bucky flicks his tongue over a perky nipple. It’s something he never admits to liking, but there’s no point hiding it when Bucky knows. He eyes drift shut as Bucky wraps his lips over the darkened patch of skin and nerve endings and sucks wetly. 

“Bucky!” he whimpers, arching further.

Bucky pulls back and turns his attention to the other nipple, giving it equal treatment. He pays no heed to the way Steve shamelessly bucks up his hips to Bucky’s own. The struggle for friction is useless though, Bucky’s ass is too high in the air for Steve to get the momentum he wants.

“Damn it, Bucky.” he curses.

“You know,” Bucky drawls, finally paying attention to something other than the oversensitive buds, “I reckon I could get you seeing stars just from doing this.”

He sounds frighteningly serious.

“So help me, Bucky; if you do you’ll have blue balls for the rest of your life.”

Steve can be serious too.

Bucky pauses, then gets off the bed.

“ _Son of a-_ ” Steve begins. He stops when he sees Bucky dropping his pants. “Finally.”

Not wasting a moment, Steve removes his own pair and throws his boxers too. He isn’t in the mood to keep stopping. Bucky nods along to his silent comment and tugs his own boxers down too. He makes no show of embarrassment being stripped bare. They’re long past that. 

Steve barely has a second to be thankful that Bucky has done some maintenance on his public hair since last time before Bucky is back on the bed. Lying together like this, Steve’s vision is blocked by the press of their sweat-clad torsos stuck together. Every time they move even a little the skin makes a gross suction-like noise and they laugh together. They have learnt that some things can only be laughed at.

“This work for you?” Bucky asks, meaning their position.

Nodding, Steve brushes a strand of brown hair off Bucky’s forehead. It falls back a second later and the sight warms Steve. He gets his feet planted on the mattress for support and leads them in a slow rhythm with gentle rolls of his hips. Bucky’s completely at Steve’s command; making small, breathy noises when their cocks rub together. His eyes are glassy, dazed. 

“You got the stuff?” questions Steve.

Snapping back into action, Bucky reaches underneath the bed and produces a little bottle. Steve moves faster when he sees it.

“You in a hurry there, Steve? Got somewhere else to be?” Bucky teases.

Steve huffs and pinches Bucky’s ass when he gets the chance. ( _“Hey!”_ ) 

After that they waste no time. Usually both prefer it when Steve tops, but tonight he doesn’t want to do that. There’ll be times when he’s physically not up to it and there are times when he just wants to ride Bucky’s cock. This time it’s the latter. 

By the time Steve has worked himself open (something that never fails to drive Bucky crazy) he’s covered in a thin layer of sweat. Bucky has long since moved between his legs to watch in fascination and jerk himself off in harmonized hand movements. A spiel of praise falls from his tongue and he watches with greedy eyes. 

Just to wind him up further, Steve crooks his fingers inside himself and twitches uncontrollably. A low moan fills the room, neither man knowing which one of them it originated from. 

“In the name of all that’s holy, Steve,” Bucky begs desperately, “ _please._ ”

With a devilish grin that he’d stolen from Bucky, Steve pulls his fingers out with a slick, dirty noise. He gestures as if to say “Well go on then” and wipes his hands on the sheets.

Throwing himself forward to rest his weight on his forearms, Bucky dips his head between Steve’s marmoreal legs. He starts with gentle kisses that work their way up from the inner thighs and towards Steve’s full cock. His nose brushes his ball sack as he moves up and licks a strip up Steve’s cock. 

Steve whines and strains to look down at Bucky. Keeping his head up and off the pillow suddenly seems like an impossible task but he has to see this. Bucky looks up at him as he kisses the tip of his cock. It’s entirely too sweet and gentle for the occasion.

“Get to it, would ya?” Steve complains. It’s meant to be forceful but comes out embarrassingly breathy.

Winking, Bucky shifts his weight a little and suddenly he’s gone from Steve’s cock. He’s lower down, both hands gripping Steve’s thighs to keep them spread and he’s- he’s-

“ _Fuck_.” Steve whispers as Bucky’s tongue slips inside his asshole.

He’s arching his back again, for all the good it does. For a second all he can think is that he’d like to change positions so he can sit on Bucky’s face and ride him but then Bucky’s _sucking_ and it’s so obscene that Steve has to frantically squeeze his cock to stop himself coming right there and then.

Legs trembling, he realises he’s dropped his head down again. His features pull together as he strains to look down the length of his body and watch Bucky work. His gelled brown hair is styled away from his face, revealing the sheen of his forehead and the way his eyes are closed in concentration. At every movement of his jaw, nearly invisible stubble scraps against Steve’s delicate skin. It’s maddening. It’s glorious. 

“Bucky,” he pants after a few long moments of this, “Bucky I changed my mind.”

At that Bucky pulls back immediately. He still has that greedy look but it’s a little sated as he wipes at his chin. 

“What’s wrong? Did I-”

Steve cuts him off before he can start to list all the ways he might have accidentally hurt Steve. “No it’s not that. I just thought,” he takes a steadying breath, aware that he’s blushing and aware that his cock is leaking pre-cum over his stomach, “I want to come like this tonight.”

Seeming to deflate and expel tension from his body, Bucky grins. “We can do that.”

Steve gives him a sheepish smile and pushes himself up to kiss his lover. He regrets it the moment he tastes himself, but figures he should at least be able to kiss Bucky after what he’s doing for him. Bucky notices the face he pulls at the taste and laughs at him. 

“Mook.”

“Jerk.”

With another quick kiss, Bucky pushes Steve back down onto the mattress and repositions himself. He looks up to see if Steve is ready and gets a nonverbal confirmation.

This time, Bucky reaches a hand up to Steve’s cock, jerking him off even as he licks between his legs. He pays no attention to his own cock, choosing to focus entirely on Steve’s enjoyment. Steve of course doesn’t argue with this. He rewards Bucky with moans and gasps, knowing what the sounds do to him.

All too soon Steve feels his orgasm cresting. He lets Bucky know, then practically keens when Bucky smirks and pushes two fingers in alongside his tongue. The result is Steve’s whole body arching, tensing, shaking and a low curse before he flops back down.

He doesn’t even try to regain control over his breathing for the next few minutes. Instead he waits, buzzing and lightheaded with a little smile on his face and his come on his stomach. When he comes back to himself he sees Bucky now lying next to him, on him side and looking at him as he masturbates. 

“Here, lemme.” Steve offers, reaching out.

Bucky shakes his head. His eyes are drawn to the spit covered bruises forming on Steve’s skin, “Got a good rhythm going.” he grunts.

Unsatisfied at not being able to help, Steve rolls onto his side and runs a finger over Bucky’s jaw. He leans over for a sloppy kiss. Their noses bump together a little and Bucky can’t fully focus on both tasks. He slows his hand for a moment to kiss Steve properly for a second, then he’s pulling back and quickening his pace.

Steve runs a hand through his own damp hair. He watches Bucky watching him and bites his lower lip a little. He thinks he probably looks idiotic, but he loves it when Bucky does it. The feeling appears to be mutual as it pushes Bucky over the edge and has him shooting come over Steve’s already sticky stomach. 

“Shit,” Bucky giggles breathlessly, “M’sorry. I was gonna catch it.”

“Yeah that didn’t happen.” Steve observes; expression reprimanding but warm. 

He can’t hold a grudge when Bucky’s panting and downright glistening in front of him though. The whole room smells of sex mixed with body odour but right now Steve couldn’t care less. He barely even cares about the drying mess on his body, a mess Bucky promises to clean up the second he can feel his legs. 

“Don’t know what I ever did to deserve you, Buck.” Steve confides to him in a quiet voice. 

Bucky hums and reaches out to rest a palm over Steve’s mile-a-minute heart.

“You did a pretty good deed today I’d say.” he reminds him.

But Steve just shakes his head and stares at the dip in Bucky’s chin. “That was you.” He’s no longer carrying any negative feelings about the incident, but neither does he feel he can take credit for Bucky’s actions.

“Come on, Stevie. I wouldn’t have helped if you hadn’t told me to. You know how I’d keep my head down like any other Joe. You’re the hero here.” Bucky insists.

Steve knows he won’t get to win this one, “You saying I bring out the best in you?”

Gesturing to the mess they still have to clear up, Bucky replies lewdly, “You certainly bring out something.” 

*

It takes him a long time to visit his nightmares again. Not because he’s scared - he’s not scared at all – but because he can’t shake the feeling that there’s something wrong about that place. He doesn’t know what it is or how it can be that a person claiming to be alive can connect with him. He thinks he was smart once, though apparently not smart enough to figure this out. 

Sometimes he believes he’s dead and that he’s locked somewhere between heaven and hell; not having done enough in his life to place him unequivocally in one afterlife. On other occasions he thinks the man with a metal arm is real and that he is meant to be a guardian angel of sorts to him. There’s no question that the other man needs someone. 

And there are days when maybe, just maybe, he thinks he might still be alive.

The theories soon consume him. The man in the ice finds himself spending less and less time in his memories and more on the brink between everything. He’ll sit with the past on one side and his bizarre, shared reality on the other. Whilst not a physical place, the liminal space is a way of separating the two in his mind. It’s easier to focus here.

After much deliberation, he decides to bring his theories to the man with the metal arm. If he truly is another person and not some shade of his own subconscious, he could provide answers that the man in the ice can’t. 

The man in the ice concentrates. This will be the first time he’s voluntarily gone to the place he now thinks of as belonging to the man with the metal arm. On each and every other occasion he felt a pull, a summons to the area. This time it’s by his own design that he goes.

When he finds himself surrounded by a grey mist blotting out his vision, he knows he’s arrived. As always the limbo world has no sounds or smells. It’s a dead place, brought to life only by the men that infrequently inhabit it. It seems to stretch on endlessly and end only feet away. It’s like being in the centre of a fog. So thick is it that the man in the ice half believes he could reach out and touch it. He doesn’t. Instead he wonders where the light source is. He can look down at his hands and see them clearly, yet nowhere can he see even the barest hint of a shadow. It’s as if the light comes from everywhere. It is this that makes him believe he cannot be alive.

His unusual companion is absent. The man in the ice knew that the second he arrived, yet now he stops to think what that means. If the other man does not always appear when the man in the ice is here, could it be proof that he’s real? 

His head hurts.

Vowing to stay until the man with the metal arm appears, he sits and waits. 

It’s impossible to tell how long he sits there, legs crossed in the gloom. Long since has he given up charting time. Oddly, for all the man with the metal arm changes in between appearances, it never feels like a great deal of time has passed. Certainly not long enough for his hair to grow out as it had. The man in the ice runs the back of a hand over his face, wondering why his own hair never grows. He can’t recall if he’d been able to grow a beard before. He has a feeling that he couldn’t.

Lost in speculation as he is, it’s impossible to miss the whirlwind arrival of the man with the metal arm. He slams into the man in the ice from behind. The force of it sends them both flying, crashing in a heap on the ground a little ways off.

“Jesus!” gasps the man in the ice, heart hammering.

He’s being crushed under the weight of the others body, pinned to the ground and unable to twist his head far enough to see what’s happening. Failing to get a visual, he listens to the sharp, constricted breathing above him. It only takes him a few seconds to realising that the man with the metal arm is terrified. He rolls off and away, coming up in a defensive crouch as he eyes the man in the ice.

A battle appears to be taking place deep in his cold eyes. There’s wariness, fear and something else. All thoughts of asking his view on theories surrounding their circumstances vanish. This is a new man who looks down on him. A dangerous one.

Slowly, the man in the ice gets to his feet. He keeps the distance between them the same as he does so. 

“Are you okay?”

There’s no reply. Not even an intake of breath. It was a ridiculous question, but worth a shot.

“What were you running from?” he tries this time.

The man with the metal arm twitches and looks around as though expecting someone to jump out at him. When no one does, he licks his lips and answers in a rough, disused voice.

“The ice.” he responses brokenly.

He has a wild look to him still. The man in the ice no longer fears for his safety, but the expression on the others face triggers primal reactions that have him acting cautiously. As much as he’d like to comfort the obvious distress the other is in, he opts to stay where he is. 

“There’s no ice here. You’re safe.” He doesn’t know if he’s lying or not.

It’s no surprise when the man with the metal arm shakes his head. The intensity of the action makes him look as though he’s trying to dislodge water from his ear canal. 

The voice that tumbles out of him next is slighter higher than it was a second ago, “They put me on ice.” 

The words are an unclear epiphany of sorts. They bring the man to his knees. Like a scared toddler he loses all traits of defiance or defence. His arms cradle his chest, eyes downcast. The man in the ice swears he sees a tremor run through his body.

“Who are ‘they’?” he pries.

Despite his kind tone and placid behaviour his words go unrecognised. It’s frustrating. There’s no clear path for what to do.

The man with the metal arm curls in on himself and his shoulders start to quiver. He’s still not breathing properly. Surely there’s a trick to calming down someone in this state but the man in the ice doesn’t know it. He watches helplessly as the other clutches at himself with enough force to bruise. 

Then suddenly he throws himself onto all fours and starts heaving as though he’s going to throw up. His hair isn’t long enough to cover his face yet, so the man in the ice can see the prominent vein bulging in his temple as the man gags around air. It appears that his stomach is empty however. All that happens is the man making frightful gagging noises and gasping for breath. 

When he can get enough air he’s talking again, “Don’t make me hurt anyone! I won’t take the mission.”

The man in the ice doesn’t know what this means. He wonders if his companion is delusional. Whether or not he is though, he still needs to be calmed. The man in the ice approaches and crouches next to the other. He considers reaching out to lend a comforting touch but feels it might go awry. 

“What can I do?” he pleads.

Fearful blue eyes snap up to meet him. “I don’t want to be on ice! I’ll be _good_. Please, don’t put me on ice!”

He’s disjointed. Falling apart at the seams. He can’t hear what’s really being said. That doesn’t stop the man in the ice though.

“I’m not one of them,” he promises, unsure of whom that is exactly, “what can I do?”

The man with the metal arm drops his gaze and moans. His hands both come up to grab fistfuls of his hair and he’s pulling it with such force that the man in the ice grabs his wrists to stop him. He’s successful in his aim but for his trouble the man with a metal arm delivers a nasty right hook right to his cheek. It seems instinctive. The man in the ice tumbles backwards, feeling the pain and trying to quell the giddy delirium of being able to _feel_ it. 

“ _I won’t be your killing machine!_ ” the man with the metal arm yells.

Before he can sort through the confusion, the man in the ice feels something new happening. By the time he realises that the other man is ending the link, it’s already too late to stop him. He’s ejected from the nightmare plain and spat out in the no man’s land of his isolation.

He hadn’t realised the other could force him away. After what just happened, perhaps giving him space is the right thing to do.

And yet…

There’s a memory. It’s a fairly fresh one, no older than a year before the ice. He knows this because he’s not in America anymore. Belgium, he thinks briefly. At the start of his last winter.

Steve Rogers isn’t so much pacing outside the medic tent as he’s trying to create a moat across the entrance using his feet. The surrounding field has shivering blades of grass blanketing it but in this particular patch it’s been crushed underfoot. Steve has a good reason for his apathy of the fauna and it lies screaming within that tent.

“I wish he wouldn’t be so loud.” says the man who is actually on guard duty and has been happy to let Steve take the reins. He winces when Steve levels an icy look at him. “Didn’t mean no disrespect, Cap. It’s just we’re out in the open like this…”

He wisely chooses to fall silent.

Steve nearly says of course they’re in the open – they didn’t have a choice. As much as he loves the cover of a good wood, there is little even a genetically modified super solider could do about the lack of trees in this particular region. Furthermore, the space allows room for the vehicles and bigger tents to be set up. The unit sits snug in the middle of the field with their big guns out and the knowledge that no one can sneak up on them. That is unless the Axis powers had harnesses the power of invisibility, but Steve isn’t very concerned about that. He opts to say none of this to the guard.

It’s only a few minutes later that the flap to the medical tent is pushed aside and someone runs out. They avoid Steve’s eyes and his shouts as they run off. Steve really hopes the doctor didn’t just jump ship. 

He’s relieved a moment later when the man returns with an armful of supplies. The relief lessens when he spots the penicillin and some vacuum bottles of blood. He doesn’t neglect to note that the man already has blood on his shirt and all of his bottles are unopened.

“Sir-” Steve begins.

Cut off by the man disappearing into the tent, he lets out a furious sound.

He just needs some good news. 

The guard shoots him a pitying look as he returns to pacing. 

He doesn’t have to be here of course. The rest of the Howling Commandos and the unit they were assisting were off either resting or seeing to their own injuries. He should check on his men and probably report for debriefing but he couldn’t make himself leave. There was also the issue of Bucky, but Steve forced himself to focus on one thing at a time.  
Somehow that included ignoring the gash trickling warm blood down his calf. 

Voices rise inside the tent and another scream pierces the early morning air. It’s a harbinger of further disaster. 

Steve is about to throw protocol to the wind and stride into the tent when he notices the guard snap to attention at an approaching officer. Turning to see who’s been sent to drag him to Phillips’ tent for the inevitable debriefing, Steve is surprised to see Bucky limping towards him.

“At ease.” the Sergeant calls to the guard.

He looks as bad as Steve feels. Mud is caked onto his uniform, though whether that was part of an effort to blend in to the scenery or just the result of lying in a sniper’s nest for hours, he isn’t sure. Small scratches cover his face like they did when he was a boy and used to hide in thorny bushes. There’s nothing about that boy in Sergeant James Barnes’ face.

“You’re limping.” Steve accuses, appalled. 

Giving him a shaky nod, Bucky blows air out of his lungs and looks past Steve at the medical tent. He tugs on his rifle’s strap as he asks, “He in there?”

Another yell punctuates his question and answers for him.

“He can wait. Have you been cleared by the doctors yet?” 

Steve isn’t used to worrying about Bucky’s wellbeing. Seeing his best friend injured isn’t a new spectacle but that used to be the result of a fight in a back alley in Brooklyn. This is war. Steve’s concern has bloomed into something tangible here in the battlefield. For the first time he’s experiencing what it is to fear for someone’s life. 

“I’ll see ‘em later. How’s he doin’?” Bucky presses.

“It’s not looking good. I think he’s getting a blood transfusion now.” Steve doesn’t know any more than that so he stops.

Dead eyes hone in on the canvas shielding them from further knowledge. Beyond them, the voices of the medical team are still loud. A sharp, metallic smell wafts over to them before the breeze carries it on.

“When he dies-”

“ _If_ he dies, Buck.”

Bucky’s expression sours, “When he dies, it’ll be on my head.”

And damn it all to hell if Steve didn’t know that’s what Bucky was going to say. The guilt stretched over his gaunt face is telling enough, never mind the fact he seems to have come straight to the tent after his own mission. 

“Was it you who shot him?” Steve inquires.

“What?” Bucky looks flabbergast, “No! I-”

Steve cuts across him, “Then it wasn’t your fault. You weren’t even with us when it happened, Bucky. You can’t pin this on yourself.” he soothes.

Kicking at the ground, Bucky half looks like he’s about to throw a tantrum. It would be understandable – and justified – if they were in private. They weren’t though, so Bucky wisely fights to control his temper. His teeth suffer serious grinding.

“I should have been with you, not up top with the snipers. Don’t tell me that’s what I am!” he thunders when Steve opens his mouth, “I’m co-leader of this team first. I’m meant to have your backs in the field.”

The guard nearby looks like he wants to crawl into the medic tent but Steve stands his ground. He plants his feet and levels Bucky with a cool look.

“We needed you watching from a distance. You’re more use to us when you have a bird’s eye view. Falsworth got hit but even if you had been there it wouldn’t have helped. You took out half a damn army today so don’t yell at me because you hit one a second too late. 

"He’s going to live and when he does - when he _does_ , Buck – you’re going to tell him what a prize ass you were for thinking one bullet could kill him.”

The effect is a little brusque but it does the job of shutting Bucky up. He watches him push a hand through his dirty hair, not noticing the mud that comes away on his hands. For the first time Steve realises he stinks of sweat and cow manure. He’ll have to get washed up before he gets his own wounds seen to.

Bucky purses his lips. “Where are the others?”

Grateful to have a change of topic, Steve makes a vague gesture. “Patching themselves up, or in Dugan’s case trying to trick the younger doctors into giving him medicinal alcohol.”

“He pretty hurt?”

“He’s got two shiners and a thirst.” Steve rolls his eyes.

At least at that Bucky huffs a small laugh. It sounds more for show than Steve would like, but it’s something. He’ll take it.

“Let’s go get cleaned up,” Steve suggests, “They won’t let us in right now and you smell like a real farm boy. I could use a scrub too.”

Bucky raises his eyebrows at the comment. He gives Steve a once over and realises the state Steve is in. A low noise of surprising slips from his throat when he sees the blood stains and torn fabric of Steve’s pants. 

“You’re going to tell me what happened.” Bucky threatens as he allows Steve to lead him away.

“The cost of saving our allies.” Steve replies, knowing it’s not an answer. He doesn’t want to talk about that yet. 

They must look like a sight, both men limping and trying their best not to lean on each other as they make their way across camp. Steve’s leg had been bearable when he was pacing but proper strides like this across a longer distance is harder. He says nothing but the grim, pale expression on his face says enough.

“Are we sure you aren’t going to die of blood loss before we get to soap your perfect hair?” Bucky mocks, though not unkindly. 

Sidestepping a group of men, Steve fights the urge to roll his eyes at the latter half of that question. “It’s barely bleeding now. I just want to make sure it doesn’t heal without being cleaned.”

Bucky nods and tries to hide a stumble.

They’re nearly at their destination when he curses under his breath and wraps an arm around Steve’s torso. Steve copies the action almost without thinking about it. To anyone else it would look like Steve is supporting him but he manages to hold on in a way that always equal benefit. It wouldn’t do for Captain America to look weaker than he has to.

“We shouldn’t have been there.” Steve’s voice surprises himself.

The thoughts are clattering around in his mind. He hadn’t meant to share them aloud but now he can’t refrain from letting it all spill out.

“’Course not, you shouldn’t have taken point.” Bucky agrees.

Steve shakes his head and adjusts his grip on Bucky. That’s not what he means.

“No. We shouldn’t have been on this mission. We shouldn’t be in Belgium. We still have a few HYDRA bases left to sack, we should be going there.” 

Silently he curses Phillips for insisting that the orders being given were over his head. He didn’t care who had given a direct command for Captain America and his team to go to battle, he wanted to be going toe-to-toe with HYDRA. The army had thousands of men to do the other jobs.

“It isn’t just about winning the war on HYDRA: it’s about saving people.”

Bucky’s right of course. 

They reach a tent that’s outwardly the same as every other tent they’ve just limped past. How Bucky managed to remember which was theirs, he didn’t know. Stopping in front of it, Bucky pulls away to look Steve in the eyes. He frowns when he sees the shame building there.

“Our main MO is taking down HYDRA, but that don’t mean squat if we can’t save people too. We’re waiting on intel for the next base anyway, why shouldn’t we stop to liberate a few countries along the way?” 

Bucky gives him a soft smile. Even with the mud and the scratches he still looks beautiful. 

“I just want to finish this and go home, Buck.” Steve confesses quietly. 

It feels like a terrible thing to say. A super soldier – the _only_ super soldier – not wanting to fight. But he honestly doesn’t. He’s exhausted, tired of watching men die all around him. Too many lives are being lost and somewhere not far from here, a friend fights for his.

“Then let’s get you cleaned up, Cap.”

Like a good soldier, Steve follows Bucky into the tent.

*

The man in the ice comes out of the memory wishing he had handled his previous situation like he had in the memory. It seems being dead hinders people skills somewhat. Still, to look on the bright side, he might _not_ be dead.

Perhaps it isn’t his smartest idea ever, but he wants to return to the man with the metal arm. He feels a deep-rooted need to convince him that this is a safe space. More than that, he needs to convince him that it wasn’t he who ‘put him on ice’. They’re the only two people in this world, they need to stick together.

It’s a while before he finds himself in the dream space the man with the metal arm occupies. Again, not through fear – although after their last encounter it would have been a rational emotion – but out of respect. He’d been forced out last time like an unwanted pest. Seeing how it is unlikely that the other man gets his way often, the man in the ice wants to honour his efforts. Despite that, he can’t stay away forever. The pull is too great.

The man with the metal arm is there when he arrives. He looks more composed than he was last time. There’s no emotional break when he sees his visitor.

“Can we talk?” the man in the ice asks.

He watches the other man shrug his shoulders. 

“Do what you want.” he tells him. 

The man in the ice hesitates then sits down at his feet. He tilts his head back to look up at his companion. He hopes the trusting gesture helps.

“When I’m not here,” he licks his lips, nervous suddenly, “I’m reliving memories.”

The man with the metal arm looks surprised by that, though he quickly regains his blank expression. Making no indication that he wants the story to continue, he sits down.

“I don’t have all of them and sometimes I think they’re not as reliable as I first thought. It’s not just the good ones either. There’s war, pain, death – it’s all mixed in there. But there’s something else too: I have a name.”

The man in the ice watches the other picking at his nails. It’s only because he’s watching so closely that he notices him stiffen.

“See,” he carries on, “the moment I leave the memories I forget it again. I can’t hold onto it. It gets left in the past and I’m stuck here not knowing who I was or- or who I am.”

His words seem to strike something in the man with the metal arm. He looks up.

“You don’t know your name.” It’s not really a question.

The sentence is met with the shake of a head. No. 

Under brown locks of hair his mouth pulls itself into a tight line. Words build up behind his teeth but the man with the metal arm refuses to lower his barricade and let them spill out. He swallows the traitorous words.

“I could tell you what I remember, if you like?” the man in the ice suggests.

He gets a nod to go ahead and so, memory by memory, he begins to lay bare to himself. At first he chooses his memories carefully, thinking anything too heavy might cause the man with the metal arm to change his mind. Stories of art classes, first grade teachers and kite flying in a park find a home in the plain of reality once thought to be a nightmare. Tales of the adventures of the man in the ice and his brown haired friend are shared between the two lost souls. Mostly the man with the metal arm just listens. Occasionally he’ll ask a question or snort inadvertently when he hears a particularly funny misadventure. 

The memories aren’t as real now as they are when they’re being relived. Pieces elude the storyteller. He covers as best he can, not to be overcome by his limitations. 

Eventually it winds down and the man in the ice is smiling thoughtfully at his companion. 

“Do you relive memories? When I’m not here, I mean.” 

He still can’t shake the feeling that he knows this man. Perhaps if they compared notes on memories…

The man with the metal arm frowns, eyes drifting off to the left, “Either I’m with you or I’m alone. There are no memories.”

There’s no questioning the sadness in his eyes at that. The pupils of his eyes are buoys lost in an icy blue sea. They float on salty liquid that threatens to overspill.

“Sometimes I think-”

But what he thought is never revealed to the man in the ice. All of a sudden, the man with the metal arm is flinching. He screws his eyes up and grips his biceps tight. A shiver passes through him as though he’s cold.

Before the man in the ice can offer help, the other man is gone. 

He simply ceases to exist. The area he once sat is massively empty, overwhelmingly so. The man in the ice panics because clearly, _clearly_ his friend did not willingly go. Not in the middle of a sentence. Not when they were…what? Bonding? 

He doesn’t know what to do. 

He stays.

He waits.

When the man with the metal arm returns it could be hours after he was forcefully ejected. It could be weeks. There is simply no way to tell. His face is freshly shaved and if his hair has grown it isn’t by much. What is noticeable about him is that he projects less emotion than ever in his features. There’s no hint of joy or gratitude when he sees that the man in the ice waited for him.

“Are you okay?” the man in the ice hazards, cringing at how stupid the words sound.

A blank stare looks to be his only answer for a moment, but then, “I am operational.” 

The man in the ice can’t know for sure why the other was snatched away from him. Certainty aside, he thinks it might be because they were talking about memories. This sort of thing has never happened before: Neither had the man with the metal arm spoken about himself like that. While he had been waiting, the man in the ice decided not to ask again about the memories.

“I’m going to stay with you. I don’t know what happened but I think-” God, he’s going to sound stupid again, “I think I’m here because you need me.”

The idea of telling a grown man that he needed the protection of another seems laughable. Even with his obvious disability he looks as though he could take on a small army and win. It’s strange then, when he doesn’t laugh.

“If you stay, will you tell more stories?” 

The request is so quiet that the man in the ice has to get him to repeat it. For a moment he doesn’t look like the powerhouse he is. He looks like a lost boy.

The man in the ice nods even as his friend elaborates. 

“I can’t explain it but the stories – they are comforting. Familiar, somehow.” The man with the metal arm whispers.

It’s heart-breaking to watch him unravel. As if a request like that could be refused.

The man in the ice, the man physically surrounded in frozen water that he refuses to let near his heart; he says, “I’ll stay with you.”

And together, they dream.

**Author's Note:**

> Coming in on a wing and a prayer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d1W4rVtT4Ok 
> 
> Moving day: http://www.newyorkboundbooks.com/2012/04/28/may-day-may-day-its-moving-day/ 
> 
> I’ve got a pocketful of dreams: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bTFWa92a8GE 
> 
> Once in a while: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_XHQ29N4180 
> 
> In case it isn’t clear, a selectophone is an early jukebox.


End file.
